Hiroshima Boy Page 7

  Chapter Five

  Surprisingly, Mas slept like a baby in his crypt of a bed. He didn’t know if it was because he was so exhausted from jet lag and traipsing around Hiroshima the day before. It also could have been that his body and soul were seeking repair after finding Sora’s body floating in the bay. Whatever the reason, he was grateful. For the first time in a long time, he felt hopeful.

  It was about nine in the morning and Mas, as best he could, pulled himself out of his capsule, dragging his clothing and towel behind him. Other men were emerging, hungover and showing the shadows of whiskers above their mouths and on their chins. All of them were wearing the same thin pajamas that the hotel had provided. One size fits all.

  He did as the others did and slid on what felt like cardboard slippers and followed a few men into the communal bathroom down the hall. There was a line of shower stalls, and he went into the first available one. Afterward, all dried off and changed back into his street clothes, he found an available sink with a basket of toiletries—a cheap toothbrush with maybe two lines of bristles, a mini toothpaste the size of his pinkie, a plastic comb, and a disposable razor. In a matter of minutes, he was ready for what the day would bring.

  Outside, Mas let his body memory carry him. At the intersection where Hirataya-cho, the street of his past, should have been, Mas saw signs for Hondori. Yah, Mas murmured. Indeed, it was the same street. He entered an expansive covered walkway, room for vehicles but meant just for pedestrians. There were quite a few people walking back and forth but not enough to bump into anyone. He took a few quick breaths and slowed down his gait. Between this and the garden, he felt more at peace. He was shielded from the elements, the blazing sun, and the occasional raindrops. He passed coffee shops, clothing stores, and even a pet store. From his grandson, Takeo, he was familiar with manga and anime. He looked for any storefronts displaying cartoon characters. And finally, there it was: a narrow space with a display case and aisle stacked with plastic monsters, dolls, and other nonsense that cost parents an arm and a leg.

  A chubby man wearing a black T-shirt a size too small was behind the counter. Mas circled the skinny space once, noting a back area with a couple of video consoles where a boy sat and played.

  Finally mustering enough courage, Mas approached the clerk. “Do you know Sora Tani?”

  The middle-aged man was wearing thick, round, black-framed glasses. He looked as though he could be on a cartoon show himself. “Sora-kun used to go to school with my son.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  Mas wondered if the news of Sora Tani’s death had hit the local newspaper. If it did, he was sunk, but he had to take a chance.

  “He’s my grandson,” Mas lied. “His birthday is coming. I want to buy him something. Perhaps you would know.”

  “Hmmm,” the store owner pondered. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “When you see him last?”

  “Saa—” the man said, taking time to think. “I guess around the time he stopped going to school. Maybe a year ago. My son might know what Sora-kun would want. “Kaito,” he called out to the boy in the back on the video console.

  No response. “Kaito!” he yelled.

  “Yes!” Finally, a high-pitched response.

  “Come here. Sora-kun’s grandfather wants to know what kind of present he should buy him.”

  A skinny, anemic boy appeared, wearing tinted glasses and wristbands. “I thought Sora-kun wasn’t supposed to get any more video games. His mother banned it.”

  “Ah, but I’m grandpa.” Mas tried the only excuse that could possibly make sense. “Grandpa can break the rules.”

  The boy, Kaito, frowned and pondered silently. “Well, he really loves Minecraft.”

  His father smiled widely, revealing a gap between his front teeth. “PlayStation, right?”

  Mas waited and after the boy nodded, he nodded, too. “Yes, I would like to buy that one.”

  The owner left, explaining that he needed to get the game from the back room.

  Mas was now alone with the boy.

  “Sora never talked about having grandparents.” His closed fists were on his hips. “Except for a grandma who got sick and died last year.”

  This bamboo shoot of a boy was smart; there was no denying that. Before Mas could respond, he glanced at the front of the store and noticed a couple of black uniforms. The police were paying the store a visit.

  “Ah, I come right back,” Mas said and quickly walked down to the far end of the store, hidden by the wall of cartoon-related products.

  As the police officers advanced into the stuffed store, Mas snuck out. I understood the investigation was over, he thought. Isn’t that what Thea said? It had been ruled a suicide. Perhaps her sources were wrong. Or maybe the police were here for something else entirely—but that was highly unlikely, especially since Mas recognized one of them as the videographer who’d taped his interview back on the island. What would Kaito reveal to him, and how would he describe Mas? Old man, thinning gray hair. That would apply to a good number of men walking down Hondori. But then he noticed a security camera near the ceiling. Sonofagun, he silently cursed. Perhaps he wouldn’t be as anonymous as he thought he’d be.

  He was at least able to cross back onto Hondori without being stopped. This whole solo expedition had been a big disappointment. He wasn’t able to see the old woman, and now the police had probably been notified of his meddling. He didn’t have Haruo’s ashes, and now he was involving himself in the murder investigation of a complete stranger.

  There were no ferries going to the east side of the island at this time, so he had to take the same boat that he and Thea had traveled in to the west side. Drivers in their cars lined up in front of the ferry landing, waiting for passengers to debark. Mas was one of the few who got on board after the incoming passengers got off.

  The ferry’s passenger area was virtually empty. Carrying a plastic bag with random purchases from a nearby konbini, Mas took his seat in the back like the last time. As the ferry eventually began to move, he turned on his camera and pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He studied the images of Sora and the village boy. He counted the rows in front of them and then found the approximate place that they’d been sitting. He sat there, too, imagining what the boy had been thinking about.

  His parents were divorced. He hated water, yet was on this boat by himself. And he had come here in May, a couple of months earlier. And what was his relationship with the boys in the village? Perhaps they’d met when his father was doing some kind of work there.

  Mas gazed out the window at the expanse of the sea. On the surface, it looked so placid, almost idyllic. But underneath, a giant squid might be tearing into a Pacific saury with its horny beak, or perhaps a great white shark was chasing a finless porpoise. Nature had no mercy, and as he had thought in the past, man was no different.

  He crossed his arms, sat back in the seat, and closed his eyes, attempting to imagine what Sora might have been feeling. Nothing. It was impossible. The boy was a stranger and of a different generation. What was Mas doing when he was about fourteen? The war with America was on at full blast and school was suspended. He and his classmates had little idea what all of this meant, only that food was getting scarce and their tummies rumbled with hunger more days than not.

  Yet it was crucial to belong, especially at a time of war. He remembered the shock of discovering that he was a pure US citizen, a hundred percent, none of this dual citizenship status that his older siblings had. At the time of this discovery, Mas cursed his parents for forgetting to register him as a Japanese citizen. As the middle child, he was often forgotten. And now his family had made him an enemy not on purpose, but through neglect. This was a secret that only a very few knew at the time.

  He took a deep breath and sat up. Thinking about the past wouldn’t help the dead boy today. Then his eyes focused on something etched on the base of the seat in front of him. The Japanese would never allow any kind of graffiti to
last very long after discovery, so this must have occurred recently. He pulled down his reading glasses from his head and perched them on his nose. It looked like hiragana writing that had been scratched out, maybe from the grooves of a coin. He snapped a few photos. Maybe afterward, in the right light, he could figure it out.

  Once the ferry had docked and the vehicles had driven out, Mas walked onshore. It was a bit overcast—still humid, of course, but not as hot as the other days. He was walking right past the concrete toro when he felt his shopping bag ripped from his hands. He saw it carried on one of a line of bicycles speeding past him, disappearing into one of the narrow alleys of the village.

  “Chikusho.” Mas cursed out loud. He knew who the culprits were, and he wasn’t going to let them get away with it.

  He knew he shouldn’t be running at his age, but he was anyhow. His whole body pulsated and his old bones rattled like a car that was being revved up after sitting in a driveway for too long.

  It wasn’t that difficult to find them. They were about five houses away at the intersection of another tiny alley. Above them was a blue sign with an arrow pointing to the mini Mount Fuji.

  The sturdy-looking boy who’d been in the photograph with Sora on the ferry held up Mas’s bag. His head was shaved, accentuating the fullness of his cheeks. “Old man, what are you doing over here?” he asked.

  “Hand that over.” Mas was dead serious. He wasn’t afraid of these urchins.

  The boys sensed his foreignness and began to mimic his American accent.

  “You a gaijin, right? Because you certainly stink.”

  Yes, indeed, he was a foreigner, but an outsider who was also an insider. These island boys may not understand the subtleties. Mas could use their provincialism to his advantage.

  “You the one who was talking to Sora.” Mas pointed to the ringleader. “I saw you on the ferry.”

  For a moment, the boys froze in place with their bicycles. There were four of them: the ringleader, another who was tall and reedy, another with big, almost regretful eyes, and lastly, the chibi, the little one who had been upset about the removal of his baseball cap. Close up, his sunburnt face was filled with freckles, little ants swarming an anthill.

  “You don’t know us. You don’t know what you saw,” the ringleader finally said in a tone that lacked his previous confidence.

  “Why don’t you get out of Ino,” the skinny one said.

  Again, Mas refused to be intimidated. “I see you booger snots that are up to no good.”

  Mas’s insult electrified the boys. The littlest one let go of his bike and went to collect something from the ground. He hurled a handful of pebbles Mas’s way. They pitifully landed about a foot away from him. Mas couldn’t help but laugh.

  The chibi’s bottom lip was trembling. “Shi-ne,” he called out. Die.

  The skinny one repeated it, and then the ringleader. “Shine. Shi-ne,” they chanted together. The boy with the mournful eyes was the only one who stood still and said nothing.

  Soon Mas was being pelted with stones of various sizes. He raised his right arm to shield his face. One especially heavy rock with a sharp edge struck his lower back and he staggered forward in pain.

  “Kora!” a male voice shouted. It was Gohata, brandishing a walking stick like a samurai sword. “Get out of here, you twerps! Do your mischief somewhere else!”

  Gohata had sway with the boys, because they immediately stopped and ran into various alleyways.

  “You okay?” he asked Mas, who winced as he bent down to pick up his bag of sundries. No bones were broken, but if the district manager hadn’t stepped in, he might not still be standing.

  “You pretty good with that stick.”

  “Ah, years of kendo. That’s what these boys should do. Get involved in martial arts or sports. It’s their summer break and they don’t know what to do with themselves. But they are sons of fishermen, all good boys. Really.”

  Mas remained unconvinced. Even more than the rocks, he was concerned with their jeers. Yelling “shi-ne” in unison like that was something that didn’t happen out of the blue. They had done it before.

  “I’m going to the nursing home. Do you want a ride?” Gohata asked.

  “On your bike?”

  “I have an extra helmet.”

  Mas walked with Gohata through the skinny alleys of the town to a two-story building on the side of the hill. It was apparently the largest residence in the village, with a satellite dish proudly affixed to its balcony.

  “I’ve seen this house before,” Mas said. “From the boat.”

  Gohata’s face flushed with pride. The house was nothing special, especially by LA standards. Apparently for the district representative, it was a palace.

  Gohata put away his walking stick, and after excusing himself for a few minutes, went into the house to retrieve some things.

  As he waited, Mas gazed at Gohata’s garden. While his neighbors on the hill had jungles for yards, Gohata’s was well manicured, with a walkway of different sized rocks fitted together. There was a vegetable garden on one side, filled with Japanese eggplant, cucumbers, and tomatoes, many of the same vegetables Chizuko had grown in their backyard in Altadena.

  When Gohata finally appeared at his door with two helmets, Mas commented on the landscaping. No reaction. Obviously the front yard didn’t mean much to him.

  He handed Mas one of the helmets. “You’re lucky that you bumped into me,” he said. “It’s not like we have regular taxis to transport outside visitors.”

  Mas pulled on the helmet and snapped on the chin strap. He detested people who complimented themselves, but he had to admit that it would have been quite an ordeal to return to the other side of the island.

  Gohata swung his right leg over the seat of his motorbike, and then told Mas to get on behind him. Mas felt like a fool hanging onto Gohata’s waist but if he didn’t, he was bound to fall off. The district representative was good at maneuvering his motorbike; he eased into the curves of the road like a professional. He must have traveled those roads for decades.

  At the T in the road by the elementary school, a white tent shaded rows of folding chairs. Colorful kazari decorations, normally left at gravesites during the Obon season, were secured on a fence by the tent. The hot breeze blew through the streamers of the kazari, making the scene seem festive, but it was apparently anything but.

  “Our atomic-bomb commemoration. It’s on Tuesday morning.” Gohata turned back toward Mas, who grunted in response, remembering what Tatsuo had told him earlier.

  They had putt-putted a few more miles when they caught up to someone walking by the side of the road with an open umbrella. Gohata, who seemed to pride himself on knowing everyone, slowed down. To Mas’s surprise, it was Sora’s mother, Rei.

  “Stoppu,” Mas called out.

  Gohata followed Mas’s command and waited. “You know her? She’s the child’s mother, yes?” he murmured.

  Sliding off the seat, Mas unsnapped the strap of the helmet and told Gohata to leave him here with Rei. Gohata hesitated but finally took the helmet, which he hung from the motorbike’s handle.

  “Good afternoon,” Gohata said to Rei. “I am the district representative here. At your disposal. Gohata.”

  Rei bowed back. “I am Tani Rei. I am Sora’s mother.” Her face was free of the heavy makeup she’d been wearing the day before. Without it, she looked younger and more innocent.

  Gohata removed his helmet, too. “I am sorry for what has happened.” For a moment, he actually seemed remorseful.

  Rei again bowed, her eyes becoming cloudy with tears.

  “Well, I need to attend to my family,” Gohata said.

  “Of course.” Another bow.

  The district representative put on his helmet and zoomed away.

  “You still here,” Mas said to Rei.

  “I decided not to leave just yet. Stayed at the inn last night. It was surprisingly restful. I felt as though Sora was there, close to me.”
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  Mas felt an ache of sadness. He had sometimes felt like that when he was on Chizuko’s side of the bed after she had died.

  “The villagers are kind, terribly kind. Not like anything Hideki or Toshi-kun described them to be.”

  “You know Toshi-san.”

  “Those two grew up together here. At the Children’s Home, in fact.”

  Mas said nothing about encountering both of them in Nagarekawa-dori. “I went to your apartment yesterday.”

  “Oh, you did?” Rei’s voice became high-pitched and tentative.

  “Your apartment manager was looking for you. You are going to move out, he said.”

  “Yes, it’s time to make a change. Especially now. Besides, it wasn’t like Hideki was going to help me with rent. He can barely afford his own six-mat room unit.”

  An apartment the size of six tatami mats was indeed small, the size of Mas’s room at the nursing home.

  “That was our main argument during our marriage. Money. Hideki could never hang onto a permanent job. We got married pretty young, barely in our twenties. We had a rough time of it. And then Sora was born. It was supposed to make things better. . . .”

  And obviously that plan didn’t work.

  “Hideki even talked about moving to Ino, can you believe it? Like there would be something for him here. He loves the ocean. But not Sora.” Rei stopped in her tracks and looked out at the shore. “I’ll never forgive him for bringing Sora here during Golden Week. Toshi-kun had found him a temporary job. Hideki had Sora for a weekend and brought him here. He thought it would help our son. Of course, it was just the opposite. Sora freaked out the first night and begged to come home. I wish Toshi-kun would just stay out of our lives.”